“Get a glass of wine for her, or even a cup of water,” cried out three or four voices; and one nigh the door entered the cottage in search of aid. The moment after a tall and handsome girl forced her way through the crowd, and gave directions that Joan might be carried into the house.
“Why did ye call her my Lady?” muttered an old hag to one of the men near her; “sure, she's Henderson's daughter!”
“Is she, faith? By my conscience, then, she might be a better man's! She's as fine a crayture as ever I seen!”
“If she has a purty face, she has a proud heart!” muttered another.
“Ayeh! she'll never be like her that's going to leave us!” sighed a young woman with a black ribbon in her cap.
Meanwhile Kate had Joan assisted into the cottage, and was busily occupied in restoring her. Slowly, and with difficulty, the poor creature came to herself, and gazing wildly around, asked where she was; then suddenly bursting out in tears, she said,—“Sure, I know well where I am; sure, it's my own self, brought grief and sorrow under this roof. But for me she 'd be well and hearty this day!”
“Let us still hope,” said Kate, softly. “Let us hope that one so dear to us all may be left here. You are better now. I 'll join you again presently.” And with noiseless footsteps she stole up the stairs. As she came to the door, she halted and pressed her hands to her heart, as if in pain. There was a low murmuring sound, as if of voices, from within, and Kate turned away and sat down on the stairs.
Within the sick-room a subdued light came, and a soft air, mild and balmy, for the rose-trees and the jessamine clustered over the window, and mingled their blossoms across it. Mary had just awoke from a short sleep, and lay with her hand clasped within that of a large and white-haired man at the bedside.
“What a good, kind doctor!” said she, faintly; “I'm sure to find you ever beside me when I awake.”
“Oh, darlin', dear,” broke in old Catty, “sure you ought to know who he is. Sure it 's your own—”